


lose me in the crowds at twighlight

by philthestone



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, completely chronologically possible fight me, poor kid's already met trashdadinlaw like twice, time to meet coolmominlaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Padme could already see the headlines: "Distinguished Senator from Naboo disrupts pleasant upper-class dining environment by trying to buy the Corellian street urchin who was robbing her a sandwich."</p>
            </blockquote>





	lose me in the crowds at twighlight

**Author's Note:**

> FIGHT ME THIS TOTALLY HAPPENED  
> I am also apparently on a posting kick, so sorry for the sudden influx in fic.
> 
> Reviews are hella burgers and not having awful morning sickness when you're pregnant, hopefully.

Considering the disconcerting amount of oddness that made up her day-to-day life, Padmé supposed she really ought to have anticipated something like this.

Or, perhaps not _quite_ like this – nothing could have prepared her for this particular scenario, seated on the balcony of the high-class Corellian bistro with her entourage ( _if you could call two trusted friends an entourage_ , she thought wryly) on the other side of the restaurant, watching the small, dirty child in front of her scarf down a sandwich as though he hadn’t eaten in a week.

Which – Padmé thought, feeling her already-woozy stomach swoop unpleasantly – was likely the truth.

The boy paused, looking up at her. There was a smear of reddish brown barbeque sauce on his cheek, where the sizeable width of the sandwich had rebelled against his attempts to swallow it whole. He narrowed his eyes.

Padmé took a small bite of her salad, wishing belatedly that she’d had the presence of mind to order saltine karda crackers instead, and smiled back encouragingly, all-too-aware of the funny looks the surrounding patrons had been shooting their way ever since they first arrived. For a grubby pickpocket she ran into on the street, he seemed remarkably at-ease in the decorated, lit-up balcony of the restaurant, kicking his legs absently under the blown glass table. “Yes?”

“This is weird,” said the boy.

“Oh?”

He opened his mouth, and then glanced warily around them and lowered his voice, leaning in. “You’re not gonna hand me over to CorSec?”

Padmé frowned. “No, of course not.”

“But,” said the boy, setting his sandwich down on the plate in front of him and giving her a look that likely meant he thought she was bonkers. His voice had dropped to a whisper. “I tried to steal from you.”

Padmé poked a piece of greenery around on her plate and took a deep breath. She didn’t much have an appetite, she decided – not an unusual occurrence, nowadays. Usually she’d just bring everything back up again before an hour had passed. “Operative word being _tried_ ,” said Padmé. You didn’t actually succeed, did you?”

The boy wrinkled his nose, unsure as to whether or not he should be disappointed that he didn’t successfully pocket the intricate gold bracelet or happy that he wasn’t being branded a thief.

“But –”

“Would you prefer I did hand you over to the authorities?”

“Like hell!” said the boy, loud and quick – and then seemed to realize that he was in a fancy restaurant, sitting in front of what could only be described in his mind as “a lady”. “I mean, sorry, uh, Ma’am, I didn’t –”

“It’s alright,” said Padmé, feeling a smile quirk at her lips. “Gods know one of my closest friends swears all the time.”

( _But would he still swear like that with a baby in the apartment_ and _how in the gods’ name am I even supposed to tell him_ and she inhaled sharply, feeling her smile grow strained.) 

“Oh,” said the boy. “Oh, right.” He licked his lips, and, tasting the sticky brown sauce still on his mouth, let his eyes flick back down to his plate. He looked up at her again, eyes narrowing anew. (They weren’t completely brown, Padmé decided idly, but shone with glimmers of green each time his expression changed, quick and clever and mischievous.) “Still doesn’t ‘splain why you’re bein’ so nice to me,” he said, louder than perhaps strictly necessary.

Padmé picked up her napkin and handed it to him. “Here,” she said. “You’ve got sauce on your cheek.”

The boy eyed the napkin suspiciously. “Is this one of those crazy schemes where you’re nice to little kids just so people’ll like you?”

Padmé almost dropped the napkin. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a senator or somethin’, aintcha?” He was glaring at her now, and crossed his scrawny arms over his chest. “So you catch me tryin’a take your stuff, but because it’d look awful if you called the cops on a little kid, you’re bein’ all nice so it looks like you care.”

It took Padmé a full five seconds to go from outright shock to feeling sick to her stomach.

“Oh, no …” She shook her head, fighting the impulse to reach over the table and grab his hand. “That’s not what I’m doing at all.”

His gaze faltered, flicking down from her face to his sandwich. “I don’t believe you.”

Padmé exhaled and picked the napkin up again, folding it over her lap. She looked back up at the boy, making sure to look him in the eye. “I promise you this isn’t a publicity stunt.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes,” repeated Padmé firmly. “I’m not in the habit of handing over children to the authorities, no matter how sneaky they are, and I’m not about to start now. Besides,” she added, motioning to his sandwich and using one of Anakin’s favorite lines: “you looked like you needed a good sandwich.”

The boy’s eyebrows were still creased in a frown, but some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders. Padmé wondered if his conviction in her guilt was perhaps not as firm as he’d let on; he glanced back at the sandwich again, and slowly uncrossed his arms.

“Maybe a little,” he allowed, slowly reaching to pick up the food again.

“It’s not quite as much as that bracelet might have gotten you,” agreed Padmé, “but it’s a start.”

The boy’s shoulders tensed again at the mention of the bracelet, and he dropped his eyes to his plate.

“Yeah, maybe.” He took a bite of his food. Despite his angry accusations, it was obvious that he was itching to finish the meal. “You’re not C’rellian,” he said, voice muffled by the food in his mouth.

“I’m visiting a friend of mine,” said Padmé, glad that she had a suitable reason for being on-planet; visits between senators were, after all, not uncommon – and amidst the general unrest in the galaxy, no one would suspect “discussing contingency plans in the event that the Supreme Chancellor doesn’t give up his emergency powers” as a reason for a meeting between amicable acquaintances. “Senator Garm Bel Iblis – have you heard of him?” she added, smiling as the boy’s eye grew wide.

“ _Have_ I! _Everyone_ knows him!”

“Mmm,” agreed Padmé. “He’s quite an interesting person.”

“Dewlanna says he’s one’ve the only decent politicians she’s seen,” said the boy, shoulders completely relaxed now, taking another enthusiastic bite out of his sandwich. “An’ she’s way o’er three hun’red years ol’, so she’d _know._ ”

“Really?” asked Padmé, trying another forkful of her salad and wondering what species of sentient Dewlanna was. She took a deep breath and tried to swallow, then gave up and picked up the crystaline glass of carbowater in front of her, hastily trying to gulp a mouthful down as discretely as possible. “Has she met many politicians, then?”

“Probably,” said the boy, shrugging and swallowing his food. He paused, and looked at her steadily, reaching up to wipe the latest smear of sauce from his cheek with the back of his hand, so blatantly childish and badly-mannered that Padmé had to purse her lips to stop herself from grinning with amusement. “But you’re a politician too.”

“That’s true,” said Padmé, poking another leaf across her plate. The boy nodded, almost businesslike, and turned his attention back to the remaining scraps of his food.

“Thought so. But _you’re_ pretty nice, I guess, so I’ll bet Dewlanna’s never met you.” He hesitated, and she caught him eyeing the bowl full of fried tubers sitting at her elbow.

“They’re all yours,” said Padmé, pushing the bowl towards him. “And thank you.”

He grinned, excitedly tugging the clay bowl towards himself.

“You seem hungry,” Padmé commented, spearing a vegetable on the end of her fork. “Maybe we should get some food to go, as well.”

The boy stopped in his eating, frowning abruptly, then hastily schooled his expression into what she could only describe as a valiant attempt at indifference. It would have worked, too, had his cheeks not been smeared with sauce (or his hair in a rat’s nest of disarray, or his eyes so clearly raking over the remaining food on the table hungrily). With an obvious effort, he relaxed back in his chair.

“’M not r’lly _that_ hungry,” he told her through his mouthful of tubers, then swallowed. “It’s just that I think it’d be rude if I didn’t eat all this stuff you’re giving me. Say, you’re awful nicer than I figured you’d be, lady.” He stopped, as though he hadn’t just deliberately changed the subject, to suck sweet sauce off of his fingers. “And I bet your baby’s gonna be real pretty, too.”

Padmé’s fingers froze around her fork. “Excuse me?”

“Your baby,” repeated the boy cheerfully, waiting for two beats and then realizing that Padmé wasn’t going to mention his hunger again – and in one elegant grab across the table, gave up at any remaining veneer of decorum and upended the bottle of tuber dressing over his bowl. “You’re havin’ a baby, right? Unless you’re carryin’ illegal stuff under your robes, but you’re not like me, so I guess you wouldn’t do that.” He raised an eyebrow, sucking on his finger again, and looked at her expectantly.

“I suppose I am,” said Padmé carefully, swallowing against the suddenly and irrational anxiety that had crawled its way up her throat. Dirty, underage Corellian pickpockets were hardly going to out her admittedly already-badly-kept secret to the upper echelons of the galaxy. “You’re a very clever little boy, you know.”

He grinned, halfway through popping a tuber in his mouth. There was a gap where one of his teeth ought to have been – loose tooth, probably, Padmé told herself; he was the right age after all – and his smile was lopsided and endearing. “Dewlanna says I’m the cleverest nine year old she’s ever met. See, that’s good, ‘cause I’m gonna be a pilot when I get bigger. Not just any pilot, though. I’m gonna be the _best_.” He scooped up more sauce with one of the tubers and waved it in front of him enthusiastically. “And pilots’ve got to be real clever, y’know.”

He looked so proud of himself that Padmé found herself smiling despite the burgeoning feeling of nausea in her gut. “Are you very good at flying, then?”

He hesitated. “Sorta. I don’t really have much to practice with, but I can fix up old engine parts real nice when I’ve got the tools.”

“Oh, of course,” said Padmé, wondering for a moment if she wasn’t back in the old junk shop in the desert. “So I take it you don’t have a multitool of your own, then? My friend is an amazing pilot, and he always says having your own multitool is very helpful when you’re making repairs.”

The boy’s face fell, but he bit his lip and grinned a moment later. “Naw. But maybe, if I can scrape up all the credits alright – and Dewlanna said she could cover for me when I go to the shop to buy it and no one’d know.”

“Is Dewlanna a relative of yours?” asked Padmé casually, putting another forkful into her mouth.

 _Not his mother_ , Padmé thought, watching has he hesitated, hand stalling as went to grab another tuber; wondering if he even had a mother.

(A crease appeared between his eyebrows, vanishing as almost as soon as it came, and she felt another twist in her gut. She already knew the answer.)

“No. She’s just a friend.”

“I see,” said Padmé, wondering why he would have to keep the presence of a multitool hidden (and remembering, with sudden clarity, the steady weight of her own multitool clipped to her hip, Anakin’s grinning words, when he’d given it to her only days ago, before his latest deployment – _just hang on to it and use it for whatever you need. It’s old, but it’s got lots of modifications, so it should be helpful when you’re in a fix.)_ “She sounds wonderful.”

“She’d tell me off for tryin’a steal off a pregnant lady, though,” he said, face falling slightly. A lock of his messy hair was hanging in his eyes.

“Ahah!” she said, teasing lightly and watching as he looked appropriately guilty, hunching his shoulders down and swinging his legs so that the soles of his feet skimmed over the tiled floor. “So you picked out an easy target, did you?”

“I didn’t mean to, honest!” protested the boy, eyebrows creased indignantly, wiping his hand across his mouth again and sitting up in his seat. “I mean, I knew you were pregnant, but I wouldn’t’ve done it if I had another choice, only I couldn’t find anyone else and I need to take _something_ back or Cap’n Shrike’ll –”

He stopped, abrupt and terrified, his eyes widening like saucers. His mouth clamped shut immediately.

The uneasy feeling in Padmé’s gut returned with a vengeance.

“Do you work for someone?” she asked quietly, picking up the napkin again and offering it to him. He ignored it, and shook his head vehemently, sandy, shaggy hair flopping from side to side as he did. His eyes were still wide, and his face had paled.

“Nope. Nuh uh. I’m all on my own.”

“It’s alright –” Padmé started, but he’d already stood up.

“Uh, _stars_ , Miss Lady Senator, Ma’am, it’s gettin’ real late, and, uh, you’ve been _awful_ nice and everything but I should –”

“Wait,” said Padmé, setting her napkin down gently and rising from her own chair. “I’m not going to –”

“No,” said the boy hastily, shrinking away from her and knocking into the chair he just vacated. His eyes started flicking around again, the same way they did when Padmé had caught his hand on her bracelet’s clasp and Captain Panaka had grabbed his shoulders. As if they were looking for an escape route. “It was real nice of you to gimme food but I should go back ‘cause Dewlanna’s gonna be worried and –”

“Oh, no,” said Padmé, “it’s alright, please don’t think –”

She reached out her hand quickly to touch his shoulder and he flinched away, his arm reflexively jerking up to shield his head.

Her stomach churned badly again, and this time it had nothing to do with her pregnancy. Brushing aside her nausea, Padmé abandoned all pretenses and dropped to her knees, decorum of five-star establishments and the pained look Eitré was shooting her from across the balcony be damned, and tried to ignore the prickling feeling at the back of her eyes.

( _Of all the inconvenient, frustrating symptoms that accompany hormone changes -)_

The floor was polished and clean, stark contrast to the boy’s dirty, hole-ridden shoes. With a deliberate effort, she kept her hands on her knees and looked the boy in the eye, ignoring the renewed murmurs rippling across the other patrons’ tables.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Hey, shhh, it’s alright. You can go.” He was staring at her, his mouth pulled back in a grimace that was both frightened and angry, grubby fingers curled tightly into fists at his sides. There was still a smear of sauce on his cheek. Padmé took a deep breath. “But I have something I’d like to give you first. Is that okay?”

The boy looked back down at her hands, and then behind him, where Eitré and Captain Panaka were walking towards them briskly.

“I don’t work for anyone,” he repeated again, his childish voice insistent and strained, greenbrown eyes flicking back to hers. “It’s just me, I swear.”

(There was something about the defiant set of his chin, the way his eyebrows drew in, that was so strange – almost as though Padmé _ought_ to have known him –

But that was ridiculous. She inhaled again and moved her hand, felt the weight of Anakin’s multitool, hanging from her belt beneath her robes.)

Nodding to show that she believed his claim, she swiftly reached to unclasp her bracelet. “Here.”

The boy stared at it.

“Take it,” Padmé clarified.

He looked at her, eyes narrowing again. “You’re yankin’ my engines.”

“It’s not a joke,” said Padmé patiently. “If I weren’t serious, I would have left quite a while ago.”

“But –”

“The clasp is broken, anyway,” said Padmé, holding it out to him. “Look, right there – faulty when it clicks. It could snap and fall off any time, really, and that would just be a shame.”

His hands were shaking when he took it, but he pretended that they weren’t, clenching his fists once to stop the tremors, and so Padmé pretended they weren’t, too.

“You’re – you’re giving me your bracelet.” The suspicion was perhaps not written quite as plainly across his features anymore, crooked lips hanging slightly parted as he stared down at the jewelry in his hands. The golden patterns glimmered in the afternoon sunlight, twisting around the dragon pearls in the center.

“Yes,” agreed Padmé, smiling. “Take it, please.”

He frowned. “But I tried to steal it from you.”

“I have a feeling,” said Padmé quietly, “that you need it more than I do.”

“I –” His frown deepened, but his fingers curled tightly around the expensive metal. “Yeah, whatever.”

 _(I’m a pilot_ , the little boy had said, all those years ago. And, so much more recently: _use it for whatever you need.)_

“And another thing,” said Padmé, before she could change her mind. Her fingers slipped inside her robe and unclipped the ‘tool from her belt. “The sooner you can be a proper pilot, the better, right?”

This time, his mouth dropped open completely, and he seemed to stop breathing altogether.

“It’s a little old,” said Padmé, “but –”

“That’s a multitool,” said the boy, voice half-choked. “You’re _giving_ me a multitool.”

“Yes,” said Padmé. “It’s all yours. To do with it what you like.”

He took it from her, eyes wide. And then looked back up at her as though not quite able to process exactly what had just happened. There was a tense, strained arch to his back that screamed his need to bolt away, in case it was all a dream, and Padmé tried for an encouraging smile, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

“Y – you’re giving me this,” he said, voice shaky. “For real. This is real.”

“You can’t very well be a good pilot without a multitool, can you?” said Padmé seriously, and the boy shook his head no, mouth still open. “Of course not,” agreed Padmé. “Now – didn’t you say you have somewhere you need to be?”

He nodded again, mute. His knuckles had whitened around the objects in his hands.

She smiled. “My name’s Padmé, by the way,” she said. “What’s yours?”

His hands jerked, slightly, tugging the treasures to his chest, opening his mouth and closing it just as abruptly.

“I –”

“Milady, is everything alright?”

Padmé turned, reflexively raising a hand to stall her two bodyguards. He’d only just started trusting her, after all, and –

“Everything’s fine, Captain, Eitré – we’re alright.”

“Oh,” said Eitré, throwing a wary glance in the direction of the muttering patrons. “Only, we thought when you got up from the table –”

“We’re perfectly alright,” said Padmé, voice loud and clear. She turned back, smile still on her face. “My young friend here was just about to tell me his n –”

The spot beside her legs had been vacated.

She swiveled where she was kneeling, nearly losing her balance, eyes scanning the crowds milling about outside of the bistro. He was there and then he wasn’t, and she felt so much as though she should have done more and _he needs to be okay -_

Padmé sucked in a deep breath and clenched her fingers in the fabric of her gown covering her knees, and then rose to her feet slowly.

“Milady?”

“He never told me his name.”

“Milday,” said Panaka, a touch of fond exasperation in his voice. “You can’t help every little orphan out there get back on their feet.” He made a face. “Especially ones who try to rob you blind.”

Padmé shook her head, laughing lightly, swallowing the ache that had wormed its way into her throat (because something, _something about that child_ , scrawny and underfed and dirt-in-his-hair hope-in-his-eyes, and Padmé felt her heart twist again -)

She put a hand on Eitré’s shoulder to steady herself and smiled fully this time, breathing in deeply through her nose. “Yes, of course, I’m just - being silly.” she said. Eitré’s sympathetic crease of the eyebrows was not lost, nor her covert glance to the general region of Padmé’s abdomen. “Perhaps we should go? I can just see the headlines on the holojournals tomorrow.”

“Of course, Milady,” said Panaka, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “This way.”

( _The best pilot in the galaxy,_ he’d said, and Padmé found herself hoping fiercely that it might come true.)


End file.
